


I Am Amazed And Know Not What To Say

by ladyblahblah



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:46:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyblahblah/pseuds/ladyblahblah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-theatrical discussion; or, sometimes I read Shakespeare and Think About Things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am Amazed And Know Not What To Say

  


“What a delightful evening,” I declared, stretching my feet out towards the fire, letting its delightful warmth chase away the unseasonable cold.  Holmes made a noncommittal noise and drew on his pipe.

“Dinner was excellent,” he acknowledged.

I frowned at what seemed his intentional omission.  “You did not enjoy the play?”  I was, I confess, somewhat grieved to hear it, as I had gone to a great deal of trouble to procure the tickets.  “You might be the only one in London of that opinion—the theater was absolutely packed tonight.  And I thought the actors did a superb job, myself.”

“Oh, I concede that it was well enough acted.”  He waved one elegant hand in dismissal.  “However, I have always been a far greater fan of the Bard’s tragedies than his lamentable comedies, and this particular play is the worst of the lot.”

“Lamentable . . .”  I shook my head, confused.  “I’ve never heard you voice such an opinion before.  Whatever can you mean?”

“Only that I fail to see the charm that such an unbelievable _farce_ seems to have for the rest of the populace.”

I couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the unnecessary harshness of his tone.  “So your sole criticism is its implausibility?  Holmes, _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. . . well, it’s hardly supposed to be realistic.  The fairies and whatnot, they’re merely plot devices.  And besides,” I said triumphantly, “what of the famed witches in _Macbeth_?  Surely the fanciful is not limited to comedies alone.”

“I do not speak of fair folk or witchery,” he said impatiently, brandishing his pipe in his irritation.  “The ending, Watson, the ending!  Love resplendent, each lover linked to his appropriate partner and a happily ever after for all.  ‘Jack shall have Jill’ indeed!  Preposterous!”

“And what,” I said, bristling a bit now, “is so _preposterous_ about it?”

“Aside from the very idea of any matters of love working themselves out so remarkably smoothly—the piece was written for a wedding, after all, and so I suppose allowances must be made—the principle point of my objections,” he said, leaning back in his chair once more, “rests in the characterization of the lady Helena.”

I smiled now, certain that he must be joking.  “Really, Holmes, what objection could you possibly have to the character?”

“She is intolerable,” he spat before he quickly recollected himself.  “I find her reasoning weak at best,” he said more calmly, “and the ravings of insanity at worst.  He makes himself quite clear: ‘Do I entice you?’” he quoted.  “‘Do I speak you fair?  Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth tell you I do not nor I cannot love you?’”

“Yes, but Holmes—”

“But nothing!  She persists in pursuing a man who clearly either can not or will not return her affections.  Think of the terrible, foolhardy risk she runs, Watson, entrusting her virtue—indeed, her life—into the hands of such a man!  She willingly abandons her family, her standing, gives up all she is or could be to follow him into a dark and dangerous wood from which there is no likelihood of her ever returning.  For what?  The honor of dying near him—nay, perhaps upon his very hand?  Idiocy!”

I made a noise of disgust and turned my head away.  I heard the gentle sound of his pipe coming to rest on the side table and saw, from the corner of my eye, Holmes lean forward in his chair once more.

“May I take it from that rather rude sound that you disagree, Doctor?”

“I most certainly do!” I said heatedly, turning back to see him watching me with a curiously intent expression.

“Then pray, Watson,” he prompted, “enlighten me.”

I studied him and felt a sudden sadness wash through me.  “I am not altogether certain that you would understand.”

A flash of indignation overtook his face.  “Do you suppose,” he said acridly, “that my intellect is somehow inferior to your own?”

“You know very well that I can harbor no such illusion,” I replied in much the same tone.  “But there are still some matters in which you lack . . . a proper framing experience.”

“Well, my dear friend,” he said with a tight smile, “in that case I should be glad of your expertise.  Tell me what could possibly motivate someone—someone who is, presumably, otherwise intelligent—to make such a foolhardy decision.”

“It is not a matter of decision, Holmes, it is a matter of . . .”

“Of?  What?” he prompted.  “‘Use me but as your spaniel,” he quoted derisively.  “Spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me, but give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.’  What should you call that if not purely maniacal ravings?”

“I should call it love,” I said softly.

“Love?”  Holmes gave a snort of disdain.  “The idolatry of hero-worship, perhaps, nothing more.”

“You see, Holmes, I warned you that you would not understand!” I cried, leaning forward in my chair, unconsciously mirroring his posture.  “You are mad if you think that hero-worship alone can account for it.  He ignores her; spurns her; openly insults her.  Surely such behavior would have smothered mere admiration, however strong; yet still she stands by him.”

“And you call me mad?” he said with a raised eyebrow.

“There is, I grant you, no reason and precious little sense in the matter, but love is very rarely rational.  She follows him because she quite simply can not bear to do otherwise; abominably as he might treat her, he is her all, and she would rather suffer in his presence than be forced to live without it.  That, my friend, is nothing more nor less than love.”

“Yes,” he murmured, his gaze suddenly locking with my own.  “I believe you must be right.”

I saw then, too late, the trap into which I had fallen.  My blood froze.  “Holmes—”

“No, Watson, you are correct.  Love, and love alone, describes what might make one persevere despite such abuse and neglect.”  He looked away.  “I only wonder,” he added softly, “that she was able to forgive him in the end, unworthy as he was of such devotion.”

My pulse was racing.  “She could no more withhold forgiveness than she could cease to follow where he led.”

“Even if he should lead into ruin and disgrace?”

My heart leapt into my throat and I swallowed past the lump it formed.  “Even then.”

He was silent for a moment.  Then he rose, held out his hand.  “Come, Watson.”

The edict was unnecessary; we both knew that I had never had any choice but to follow him.


End file.
